


Star Crossed

by Aluha



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Kidnapping, M/M, Star-crossed, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28579557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aluha/pseuds/Aluha
Summary: “Let it commence,” Antonio said behind him, and one second later his voice resonated from the speakers.With his eyes glued to the screen, Martin watched the Reaping.Thanks tozulenhafor beta-reading it for me <3
Relationships: Argentina/Brazil (Hetalia)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Berseker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berseker/gifts).



1.

Martin saw from the corner of his eyes when Alfred arrived. He wasn’t expecting him. His father, yes, obviously, as Arthur wouldn’t miss the chance of checking if (or how bad) Antonio would mess things up. But not Alfred.

Martin considered pretending he hadn’t noticed it, but the commotion for their arrival was so big that it was impossible. Antonio was quick to stand up, to greet Arthur and escort him to the best seat, and Martin felt the silent obligation of doing the same for Alfred.

Thing is, it was hard to find the best seat, the reason being that there were none. They’d all be seating in front of the screen, which took up the entire wall, so what difference did it make?

Alfred settled that. “Let’s sit far from the old men,” he said, and Martin followed.

There were more people there, influent men and women that Martin knew in passing. Usually they’d be way too busy tripping over themselves to capture Arthur’s attention, but not today.

“They’re looking at you,” Alfred said, following his gaze.

“No,” Martin replied. “They’re clearly looking at you.”

Alfred smiled. “Yes, that’s how it goes most of the time, but not today. This time it’s you, man.”

Martin let out a big sigh. The screen turned on, projecting the image of a much bigger crowd. It captured everybody’s attention, Alfred’s included, which meant Martin didn’t have to reply.

He did it anyway. “I should be there. That’s what they’re thinking.”

Alfred stole a glance at him. He should understand it better than anyone – it had been him in this exact situation less than a year ago. But he didn’t, even having experienced it firsthand, Alfred had no idea what it felt like.

“You’ll get your chance.” He smiled, squeezing Martin’s shoulder. “Take this year for prepping. Do a case study.”

Martin scoffed. He’d been preparing for what felt like his entire life, but sure. Just another year of prepping would make all the difference.

“Let it commence,” Antonio said behind him, and one second later his voice resonated from the speakers.

With his eyes glued to the screen, Martin watched the Reaping.

For all the talk about that event, Antonio had surely underdelivered.

Martin had followed (or perhaps watched) the negotiations with Arthur. There is a model, the President had said. A pattern, and if you don’t follow it, the message isn’t delivered. And if the message isn’t delivered, they don’t learn.

Fair enough, Antonio had replied, and from the look on his face Martin knew he’d talk his way out of it. He was the best at it, honestly. He had heard attentively, asked for clarification, noted down each clause in painful detail. Along with Arthur, Antonio came up with the Golden Rules of the Teaching.

Namely:

1\. There should be twelve districts  
2\. There should be a male and a female tribute for each district  
3\. The districts shall not interact nor communicate  
4\. The reaping must be randomized  
5\. The reaping must be televised  
6\. Your son must volunteer as a tribute  
7\. Your son must win the Hunger Games

Martin had been there when the rules were written. He had seen them being hung on the mantelpiece.

He waited until Arthur returned to the guest room and Antonio was alone studying the map of South Panem. His father frowned and scratched his forehead, running the back of a pen through invisible lines, trying to make sense of it.

“Do you plan to offer me?” Martin asked, and it pleased him to hear his own voice so cold and direct. Sharp, straight to the point. Emotionless.

Antonio faced him. “Of course not.”

Martin raised his eyebrows. “No?”

Antonio’s gaze shifted to the door, and Martin read in his eyes the ever present fear of Arthur.

He didn’t need to ask – Martin closed the door without a word.

“I can’t offer you,” Antonio said. “You’re supposed to offer yourself.”

Martin’s insides grew cold. He thought of the videos from the previous year – of Alfred and the kids he had to kill before being crowned a victor.

Antonio stood up and walked to the Rules. He pointed to the last one. “You’re not ready. We can’t risk it. If you lose, I… there’s no recovering from that.”

“No recovering… from death?”

“From death. From shame. No, I can’t risk it. Not yet.”

Martin opened his mouth, but this time his voice faltered. “Alfred won in his first year.”

“Alfred is different,” Antonio replied. “And Arthur never had as much on the line as I do. No, son, I won’t let you. I can’t risk it.”

His father turned to the map again and Martin’s face flushed.

He left without a word. He could have gone to his bedroom upstairs, hidden his face in the soft satin pillows and screamed his voice out, but no, he had to– he needed to get out. He couldn’t breathe.

Martin went outside, in the middle of the night. The wind blew violently against his face, bringing the sharpness of the river, and the cold clung to his arms and neck. Martin didn’t mind; it was what he needed.

He ran until his legs gave way.

That wasn’t the only rule Antonio didn’t follow. Oh no, the more days that passed, the more exceptions he made. Does it really have to be twelve districts, he’d ask one day. If we think about it, isn’t it much easier to let the districts communicate among themselves – the peacekeepers can do the same. And so on. And so forth.

Arthur let him have his way. Gave him enough rope to hang himself, as Antonio would put it later, when the President wasn’t around.

And man, did Antonio hang himself.

By the time the Reaping came, the travesty of the Golden Rules was:

1\. There are twelve districts – but five of them aren’t determined yet  
2\. There will be a single tribute for each district – male and female will be sorted together (at least until we get things running properly)  
3\. The districts shall not interact nor communicate, unless it benefits the Capitol (and sometimes it benefits the Capitol not to worry about this)  
4\. The reaping will be randomized, unless it is more convenient to pick a specific tribute  
5\. The reaping will be televised  
6\. Your son must volunteer as a tribute at some point in time. At any point  
7\. Your son must win the Hunger Games

  
2.

The first district to be reaped was number Three.

Martin had expected, and hoped, that the nonsensicality of the situation would earn Antonio a reprimand. However, the magnetisms of the Reaping had already enveloped all of them, so if anybody had registered that absurdity, they had kept it to themselves.

The first tribute was a boy, couldn’t be older than fifteen. So, two years younger than Martin.

He walked to the podium with shaky legs, his face pale. And Martin didn’t want to get attached to anyone, but it was impossible not to feel sorry for him, appearing so small in front of the crowd.

“Far from me to jinx anybody,” Alfred said, “but this guy is a goner. Ten bucks he’s gonna lose his glasses at the Cornucopia and spend the rest of the time bumping into trees.”

“You didn’t lose your glasses,” Martin pointed out.

Alfred smiled. “I’m something else, you know.”

Martin rolled his eyes. The screen changed to district Four, and this time the tribute was a girl. About sixteen, it seemed, with long brown hair. She was conscious of the crowd, conscious of being on camera, but there was only so much that somebody could do in that situation. So even if her face was hard, the tension in her hands betrayed her.

District Six. A boy with dark hair and big, dark eyes. When the camera tried to get a shot of his face, he gritted his teeth and growled at the reporter.

A murmur of approval passed through the audience, and Martin turned back to see both Antonio and Arthur nodding.

“He might be the favorite of the season,” he said.

“Not impressed,” Alfred replied.

District Seven was another girl. She tried to keep a serious face, but the huge bow in her hair made her look so innocent that Martin felt his stomach turning. He was relieved when the camera moved forward.

District Eight was another boy, by far the youngest of the bunch. His brown eyes were red by the time he made it to the podium.

District Ten was a boy around fifteen or sixteen, like most of the others. But also shaking, also pale from fear. His spiky hair might have given him a rebellious look under different circumstances, but there, when he was alone on the podium, it just made him look helpless.

Children. All of them.

But even if Martin felt disgusted with that spectacle, he also felt anger. Shame. He hated Antonio and he hated Arthur, but more than that he hated himself for wanting – no, for needing to ask:

“Seriously. Do you think I’d lose to them?”

“Never.” Alfred turned to him. “You’re at a whole new level, man.”

Martin couldn’t hide his smile, and Alfred squeezed his shoulder again.

On the screen, the camera went to district Twelve, the last of the seven. The tribute was also a boy, which totaled five boys against two girls.

He was around sixteen, but shorter than most of the others. Brown skinned, and wavy black hair. Martin braced himself for the fear and despair to take over his face, but, unlike the others, that didn’t happen. Oh, his eyebrows darted up at the sound of his name, but then, against all odds, he smiled.

“What the hell?” Alfred murmured.

The boy didn’t just smile, no, he… he waved to the people of his district, walking towards the podium as if he was to receive a prize. The person who was sorting the names – a woman with long straight hair – seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. When the boy got to her, he held her hands and kissed her fingers.

After that, several things happened at the same time.

The woman shook her head countless times, convulsively, and a collective gasp swiped the audience. The boy hugged her tight and she buried her head in the gap between his shoulder and neck.

“She’s his mother.” Martin held his head with both hands. “Holy fuck, she’s his mother.”

“How do you know?” Alfred’s voice came with a frown, but Martin didn’t know how to explain. It was their faces. Their eyes, their skin, it was the hug.

It was the way that the whole district erupted in yells.

The screen turned black after that. It had to be part of the strategy, but it wasn't a good strategy. Throughout South Panem, everything people would be talking about was the boy who had been reaped by his own mother.

The silence in the room was so thick that Martin could feel it over his skin. When Antonio walked to the center of the room, his footsteps resonated.

“Thanks for joining us today,” he said, addressing the guests and the cameras. “The tributes are saying their goodbyes as we speak. They’ll arrive at the Capitol tomorrow, and we will get the chance to meet them properly.”

He finished by gazing at Arthur, who stood up to join him. So soft, so natural; Antonio stepped aside and let the real puppeteer take the stage.

“Let this be a reminder to all of us,” Arthur said, his eyes finding their way into each of those present. “Let us never forget the price we pay for peace. For freedom. For a better world. Let us all remember–” he faced Martin “–that none of us can refuse to pay their share.”

Martin felt his cheeks heating up.

He wanted to reply, he wanted to stand up and volunteer. He could do it. He could beat anybody in that arena, he could beat all of them together. He wasn’t afraid, he was better than Alfred, he was better than them.

But his tongue was glued to his mouth. His feet were stuck to the ground. When Arthur’s eyes bore into his, unleashing the full impact of Panem – higher, stronger, tougher than Antonio had ever been – Martin was shocked to find that he was rendered powerless.

The cameras cut and Arthur turned to Antonio. Martin faced his own feet, feeling the stinging of his face.

“Are you going to bet this year?” Alfred asked, again oblivious to all that was happening. “I feel like going with the psycho girl, but I’m not sure.”

Martin didn’t reply. He could barely understand what he was talking about.

“Or maybe the psycho boy. Yeah, I gotta think about this one. You coming?”

The people were starting to get up. Martin did the same, but he didn’t trust himself to speak. Didn’t trust himself to open his mouth.

He was trying his hardest to keep his face blank, but something must have come through, because Alfred became serious.

“Just pick somebody to bet on,” he whispered. “Anybody. Keep acting interested, always. It’s gonna be okay.”

“Alfred,” Arthur called to him from the door.

“Take care, man.” Alfred gave Martin a half hug. “See you at the Stadium.”

  
3.

The tributes arrived in Buenos Aires along with dawn.

They were brought to the training center for the prepping before the introduction to the crowd. Each tribute had a dedicated team and five hours to be dressed and have their hair and make-up done.

Considering that some of them had spent the whole night traveling, Martin believed that most of the make-up would be used to cover their dark circles. But of course, layers and layers of lipstick and mascara were sure to be applied, all in the effort of having them look as old as possible.

The girl from District Seven had been forced to say goodbye to her bow. Her hair had been tied up in a high ponytail, and black lipstick hid as much as it could the sweetness of her face.

That wasn’t the cruelest change, oh no. That one was fine, even if the girl was visibly uncomfortable in her leather dress. No, the worse had to be what was done to the girl from Four.

They were going along the line of “psycho girl”, as Alfred had put it. Her beautiful hair had been cut; she was shaved. The contouring of her face had been enhanced, but, unlike the other girl, in this case it aimed at making her look more alien. Exotic. Lethal.

For the boys, the biggest transformations had to be Districts Six and Eight. Somebody must have pitched the idea of having the boy from Six portrayed as a savage, uncontrollable, so most of his clothing involved chains of some sort. Binding his feet together, hanging from his neck down to his waist. And this time, when he growled at the crowd, his teeth were markedly sharper.

As for the boy from Eight, a huge effort had been done in order to have him appearing older. His hair had been cut short; tattoos had been carved on his skin. Martin surely hoped they weren’t real, but he was afraid to ask.

He searched for the boy from Twelve and was more relieved than he should be when he found his hair still intact.

He was dressed in the most provoking outfit. A ridiculous attire that, despite covering his legs and arms, let out his chest and thighs for appreciation. There was something around his neck, but it was different from the chains used on District Six. No, for District Twelve it was velvet, golden velvet, like what somebody would use on a pet. On a kitten.

“Basically,” Martin said, “he’s dressed as somebody’s personal fetish.”

“Yes,” Antonio replied, smiling and waving to the people in the grandstands. “If he’s lucky, he’s dressed as everybody’s personal fetish.”

Martin followed his gaze to the people clapping and whistling. The tributes had been placed in the center of the stage, less than one meter apart, each one behind a plaque containing their names, district and age. Most of them didn’t move nor looked back. Not the boy from Twelve, though. No, he was… basking, that was the word, he was basking in the attention of the public.

It wasn’t even that he was sexualizing himself (no more than the clothes were, at least). He was smiling, waving, throwing kisses, acting more open than anybody Martin had ever seen in his life.

Even when Arthur and Antonio made their way to the tributes (Martin, Alfred and the others would be able to approach them later, but only after the President and the Head Gamemaker), the boy from Twelve didn’t shy away from the questions.

Most of it was pointless anyway (what did he think of Buenos Aires, had he ever imagined being in that situation, yadda yadda yadda), but, because he kept responding as a genuinely nice person, Arthur asked:

“Are you aware that you’re here to kill or die? Did the Reaper remember to mention that?”

The crowd laughed but the boy’s smile didn’t falter. “Oh, you mean my mother? Yes, she told me so.”

“And? Aren’t you afraid?”

Usually the tributes would take this time to market themselves – as Alfred had done in the previous year. If Martin remembered correctly, he had been asked this very same thing, and his answer was that the others should be afraid of him.

The boy from Twelve shrugged. “If it wasn’t here, it’d be back home. I never thought I’d live past sixteen anyway.”

The crowd laughed again. Antonio pressed on, “Really? Is it that dangerous on the Twelve?”

“It’s not,” he was quick to reply. “It’s the best place to be. But I have a tendency of getting on people’s nerves.”

“He’s not lying,” the girl from Four said with a half-smile, and the boy winked at her. This time the crowd clapped.

“Oh, do we have a romance blossoming?” Antonio said with faked surprise. The boy laughed and the girl’s face hardened again. Both shook their heads. “Better not waste time, lovebirds!”

It was as tacky as it was cruel, but, really, that was what most Games were.

Once Arthur and Antonio came back, the others, the high class of Buenos Aires, were invited to approach the tributes. Just another layer of surrealism, when people asked, under the close watch of the TV, how fast or strong they were. How comfortable they were with killing people. How likely it was for them to win; how bad they wanted to be sponsored.

This would last the whole day, so Martin wasn’t in a hurry. He waited until the crowd began to disperse and the tributes started talking among themselves. He watched to see if Twelve and Four would talk and was oddly satisfied when they didn’t. The girls talked among themselves – number Four clearly watching the movement of number Seven’s hair – and Twelve made his way to number Three.

Martin hadn’t noticed it before, but the boy from number Three didn’t have his glasses. And, judging by his unfocused eyes, he hadn’t been offered anything to cover up for it. When the boy from Twelve touched his wrist, the boy from Three squeezed his hand and turned to him, close, extremely close, as if he wanted number Twelve to be everything he could see.

Martin couldn’t explain what overtook him, but that was the moment that he made his way up to them.

“Oh, hi.” the boy from Twelve smiled. “I saw you watching, but I didn’t know if you’d come join us.”

“There were too many people,” Martin replied.

“Does it bother you?”

He hadn’t let go of number Three’s hand like Martin assumed he would. If it had been Antonio or Arthur approaching him, he would have definitely done it.

He didn’t take Martin seriously. That was the only explanation.

“I didn’t come to talk.”

Number Twelve raised his eyebrows. Number Three frowned.

Before they could ask, Martin said, “I came to see if you’re worth my investment. So, let’s head back to your post, shall we?”

Number Twelve bit his lip. His shoulders tensed up and he finally let go of Three. When they walked to his plaque, Martin could feel the heat of his anger.

“Done.” The boy smiled again, stepping behind his sign. “Anything else, your highness?”

His smile was too big to be faked, but Martin didn’t believe it anymore. He had felt it – the anger – it had to remain there somewhere. But now the boy only had eyes for him, big brown eyes full of expectation, and Martin, who hadn’t thought that through, lowered his gaze to the plaque.

“Luciano da Silva,” he read out loud.

“Yep. That’s me. A bit succinct, but still true.”

Martin faced him again, and that was when he saw that there was something written on the leash around his neck. Luciano saw that he was looking and raised his chin, giving him a clear view.

“Mama’s boy,” Martin said, and it tasted rotten on his tongue. “This…”

“It’s well thought out,” Luciano completed. “Considerate, too. I was the only one who got a gift.”

“It’s awful,” Martin finished. “I– this is disgusting.”

Luciano stopped smiling. His eyes were glued to Martin’s, and for a second there was no trace of that misplaced joy.

Martin had never seen somebody as open as he was, but, in that moment, it became clear that Luciano hadn’t been open before. It was all fake except for that, for the pained surprise in his irises.

Luciano lowered his face. “She didn’t have to see it. At least that.”

“That–” didn’t mean anything, Martin almost said. It didn’t, even if she didn’t see the leash, the nickname had been coined. Whenever the camera zoomed over Luciano in the arena, fuck, even during the interviews, that was how he was going to be called. Mama’s boy.

His silence was heavy and Luciano raised his gaze again. But that was a completely different expression, one of curiosity, and it made Martin wonder how many faces Luciano had.

“Why are you here?” He asked in a whisper.

Martin turned back. Antonio was back in the master balcony, talking to Arthur and the others. Luciano followed his gaze, but it didn’t mean anything to him.

What difference does it make, Martin thought. He could give him that. Call it charity, before Luciano died in a pointless punishment.

“We’re related.”

“Related?”

“Yeah.” Martin fought the nausea. He hated using the word ‘father’. “Related.”

Luciano frowned for a second, until surprise struck him. He looked up to the balcony again, then back to Martin. “Wait, you’re talking about the big guy? You two are family?”

“Yes. It doesn’t change anything, you know.”

“Oh, I gotta disagree with you on this one.” His smile came back fast now. “I think we both know it changes a lot.”

His reply took Martin by surprise, and the anger heated up inside of him. “Like what?”

“Well. I guess this is the reason why you’re daddy’s little boy and I’m mama’s–”

He didn’t have a chance to finish it. Martin didn’t decide to, didn’t think about it, but when his fist cut Luciano’s speech short, he knew he had deserved it.

He had as well as asked for it.

Luciano stumbled backwards, nearly falling. Blood dripped from his mouth and he tried to cover it, but before he could, peacekeepers took hold of his arms and twisted it behind his back.

He moaned and Martin took a step back. He saw more peacekeepers taking all the other tributes in, he saw the audience gasping in surprise, he saw Luciano being forced on his knees and a gun being pointed to his head.

“No!” Martin’s feet were stuck to the ground, but at least his mouth worked. “Don’t shoot!”

The peacekeeper didn’t move. His eyes went past him, and Martin turned back to find Antonio running to them.

“What happened here?” He asked, looking from Luciano to Martin. “What did you do?”

His eyes were shooting daggers, and Martin took one step back. In Antonio’s red face he saw the whole story, the rage from losing the most marketable tribute the Games had ever seen.

The peacekeeper with the gun wrapped his fingers on Luciano’s hair, forcing him to face them.

“I’m sorry,” he moaned, spitting blood on the ground. “I said that I’m good at getting on people’s nerves.”

Silence weighed for a couple seconds, until Antonio laughed out loud.

“I see what you mean!” He kept laughing. And then, to the peacekeepers, “Don’t shoot. Take him inside and make sure that nobody kills him before the Games start.”

They obeyed. And before he was taken in, Luciano smiled broadly at the crowd.

  
4.

The tributes had one week to prepare for the Games. Training sequence in the morning, public entertainment in the evening.

Not so much for entertainment, as most of the time the tributes were displayed in their stands, and, unlike what was done in North Panem – where they’d be tailoring their special talents – they didn’t have to do anything. No more than enduring the attention and hearing the tasteless questions.

As Antonio’s son, Martin had no option but to attend each session. Sometimes even the training practices, if Arthur so desired. They did it twice, and both times seemed so invasive that Martin felt his skin crawl.

There were different stands for those who wanted to practice fighting, bow and arrow, knife throwing, spear combat. No camouflage techniques. No climbing. No first aid.

“There’s nothing for fishing either,” Alfred replied when Martin mentioned it. “Nor hunting.”

“There’s bow and arrow.”

“It’s not the same. If you’re targeting a person–” he spread his hand on Martin’s chest for demonstration “–you can pretty much aim anywhere. If you hit the head or the belly, the guy is a goner.”

“And isn’t it the same for the hunt?”

“No. You don’t want to waste meat. And if you’re trying to hide, you don’t want to be loud either.”

“Basically,” Martin said, “you don’t want to be cruel. A clean, definite shot.”

“Yep. That’s the goal.”

Martin nodded. He could have said how terrifying it was that there wasn’t a concern for shooting people, but he didn’t. Instead, he thought of the rationale of throwing seven kids into unknown terrain (could be a jungle, could be a desert) and not teaching them how to survive.

Antonio and Arthur kept walking through the corridors and Martin and Alfred followed. Some of the tributes were practicing together, even teaching each other. Whenever they noticed they were being observed, they’d tense up.

Or, more correctly, most of them would. Of course Luciano didn’t.

He had been showing the boy from Eight, the youngest one, how to properly hold a knife. When the group approached him, he greeted them with a smile.

“How is it going today?” Antonio asked. “Have you learned anything new?”

“Oh, sure,” Luciano said excitedly, taking a small knife in his hand, “this one for instance–”

The peacekeepers got to him before he could finish it. A twist in his wrist, a kick to his knees, and Luciano was disarmed and on the floor. The boy from Eight was rushed to a different station.

Antonio smiled. “Perhaps don’t point knives to the Head Gamemaker.”

“Got it,” Luciano moaned. “I’m sorry.”

Antonio nodded to the peacekeepers and they let him go. Luciano fell on his hands and knees and Antonio and Arthur went to the next table. Alfred followed them, but Martin stayed behind.

Antonio’s amusement didn’t surprise him, not as much as Luciano’s obliviousness. But of everything, what really stuck to him was that nobody had bothered patching Luciano’s face up. The bruise in his lip remained, the redness of the scar contrasting with his tanned skin.

When Luciano noticed that Martin was still there, he got up and his lips extended in a sarcastic smile. “Good to see you again. Did you want to have a moment of privacy with me?”

Martin frowned. “There’s no privacy. Everything’s being recorded.”

“It’s as private as it can get,” Luciano replied. “So, what’s it gonna be today? Are we going to bond over our parents, or do you want to see how skilled I am with a knife?”

Martin felt the familiar pangs of anger, but he forced himself to smile. “I don’t think you’re skilled at all.”

Luciano’s eyebrows darted up. “Well, fuck you. I’m better than you’ll ever be.”

It was Martin’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “You know literally nothing about me.”

“I know you can’t butter your bread without your daddy telling you to put down the knife.”

Martin’s face heated up and he took a knife from the table. “You and me,” he said, pointing it to Luciano’s face. “Challenge, now.”

The same anger flashed on Luciano’s eyes, but this time, for the first time, he was faster. He took one step back, hands behind his head, and knelt. By the time the peacekeepers arrived, there wasn’t much that they could do.

Martin swallowed hard. He put the knife down and, without taking his eyes off Luciano, told the peacekeepers to back off. Still, Luciano waited until they were in a safe distance before lowering his arms.

He didn’t get to his feet, though. Which meant he had to look up to face Martin, but his expression didn’t betray any discomfort.

Martin wasn’t so sure about himself. Even if ten percent of his discomfort leaked through, it’d be more than enough. He almost took the knife again, just for the sake of having something to do with his hands. Anything to prevent him from walking to Luciano and burying his fingers in the softness of that hair.

Luciano’s eyes slid through Martin’s face, his shoulders, his chest, the groin. After that, they stopped moving.

“I’d love to take you,” he murmured.

“What?” Martin asked in a gasp.

Luciano’s eyes focused on his face again. “On the challenge,” he said. “I’d love to take you on your challenge.”

“Ah.” Martin ran a hand through his face. “Sure. Yeah, me too.”

Luciano turned to face the peacekeepers that watched by the wall. “You’d need to get rid of your bodyguards, though.”

“Yeah, that ain’t happening.”

“Then you wait to see if I’ll come back.” Luciano smiled. “If I survive the Games, you’re the first person I’ll want to see.”

Martin’s cheeks burned, and he didn’t need a mirror to know that he was bright red.

He didn’t reply. Instead, he turned on his heels and left the training center.

The clock struck midnight and Martin was still wide awake.

He kept turning over in bed, trying to empty his head, but glimpses of the day kept coming back in high definition. The images replayed sharper than when he first experienced them – so now not only did he see Luciano’s hair, he could feel it on his fingertips. The laughter he so easily faked, Martin could drink like wine.

His fear – because Luciano was afraid, he could hide it but he couldn’t make it vanish – smelled of cinnamon. His skin, the elasticity of his smile, it tasted of dark chocolate.

And when he knelt, when he knelt and looked up, the distance between them disappeared and Martin gasped in his lonely bedroom. I want to take you, his mind echoed, and he shut his eyes. I want to take you, I want to see you, you’re the first person – you’re the only person I want to see.

It hadn’t been like that, not at all, but the night intensified the memories. Martin moaned and covered his mouth with his hand.

He had to stop that. He needed – a shower, yes – he needed to see Luciano. He had to solve that. Stop that. It’d ruin Antonio, it’d be an embarrassment, there was so much on the line, but Martin didn’t care.

He got out of bed, stumbling and panting, and had to rest his back against the wall to calm his frantic heart.

After that, he left the house.

Martin jogged to the training center. In his pajamas, wildly unprepared for anything, facing the cold with nothing but insane resolution.

Thirty minutes later, he was panting in front of the training center. There were two peacekeepers by the door (they hadn’t seen him yet), and certainly many more inside.

Ideally, Martin wouldn’t interact with any of them. Wouldn’t be seen. He took the center in, trying to come up with a plan of how to break in, when suddenly it stopped being a concern.

Because, right before his eyes, the entrance of the building exploded.


	2. Chapter 2

5.

It was all flashes of consciousness, disconnected fragments without a string that linked them.

Fire, sirens, and the impact of reaching the ground at high speed.

Being shoved somewhere, being tied up to something, being left out in the dark.

Pain, blinding pain everywhere, and a hot liquid running on his neck.

Touches, before the carrying and the shoving, holding followed by shaking followed by compressing followed by the pressure of lips. Kissing. Mouth to mouth. Kissing.

Martin was sure that most of these he had hallucinated anyway.

Next time he opened his eyes, the ceiling was so close that Martin had a second of panic thinking he was in a coffin. But no, there was space, there was oxygen. He was…

In a wardrobe?

Martin groaned and tried to sit up, but he couldn’t move properly. His brain was so foggy from the pain that it took a good amount of time until he found out that his wrists were tied behind his back. From the feeling of it, his ankles were restrained as well.

He was tied up. In a wardrobe.

Martin shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He tried to make sense of that, but no thought was following through. The word “concussion” sparkled before his eyelids and he was still panicking about it when the door of the wardrobe opened.

It was a boy. Martin knew him from somewhere, but he couldn’t place his spiky hair.

However, when he beamed, Martin didn’t recognize that smile.

“He’s awake,” he said. And, turning to whoever was behind him, he announced, “Guys, our ticket to freedom is awake.”

“Oh, fucking finally.” The face of a bald girl appeared over his shoulder. “Can I kill him yet?”

“What?” Martin moaned – or didn’t. He wasn’t sure his mouth was working properly.

“Wait, wait, I gotta see him.” Another boy made way between the first two, but that one Martin recognized for real.

The boy. The one from Twelve. The cute one.

“Luciano,” Martin mumbled.

“Yep, that’s me.” He smiled, crouching in front of Martin. “How do you feel?”

Martin didn’t know where to begin, so he didn’t answer.

Luciano didn’t mind it. “How many fingers do I have here?”

Martin squinted. “Three?”

“You’re fine.” Luciano recoiled his hand. “Good. I can get this out of the way, then.”

Martin thought about asking what, but he was way too slow. Before the word formed in his brain, Luciano punched his face and everything turned dark again.

So, the next time Martin opened his eyes, and the memories were somewhat more easily accessible, he was relieved to find himself in a bed, still tied up but alone.

The boy, district Ten, if Martin wasn’t mistaken, had called him their “ticket to freedom”. Regardless of how misplaced his hopes were, Martin hoped Luciano had been scolded for knocking him out then.

Anyway. Martin looked around, trying to put the pieces together. There was nothing special about that room, nothing but the mattress on the floor – it wasn’t even a real bed, as a second analysis had shown. On one of the walls there was a sad, empty shelf, and brooms leaning on the opposite wall.

Martin could hear voices, but not well enough to let him understand what was being said. He couldn’t place whether they were coming from upstairs or downstairs.

The door of the room opened and Martin startled before he could get a hold of himself.

“Good, you’re awake.” Luciano turned the light on. “How do you feel?”

He sat at the edge of the mattress, studying Martin’s face as if he was a doctor.

Martin tried to convey as much hatred in his voice as he could. “Why? You’re gonna punch me again?”

Luciano smiled. He held Martin’s chin and let his thumb draw across his face. “Come on, now. You knew I had to give you one back. And it didn’t hurt that much, did it?”

Martin refused to answer that. He tried to escape Luciano’s touch, but it was harder than it seemed.

“Where am I?” He gave up. “What day is it?”

“Oh, I’m so happy you asked. Okay, so–” he got more comfortable on the mattress, leaning against Martin’s belly like it was nothing “–as for where, I can’t really offer much, except that nobody’s gonna find you, ever. But as for the when, it’s my pleasure to tell you that you’ve been sleeping for two days.”

“Two days?” Martin raised his eyebrows. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yep, fucking serious. So, how is it again?” He frowned for a second, trying to recall the memory. “Ah, yes. Let the Games begin!”

“And may the odds be ever in your favor,” Martin mumbled.

Luciano laughed, but now Martin didn’t see anything real about it. Too loud, too big, too happy to be true. And if he and the others had managed to escape the opening of the Games, they shouldn’t be happy, oh no. They should be terrified.

The ticket to freedom, Martin’s head echoed. He tried to wet his lips, but his tongue was completely dry. “You… what’s your plan, exactly? You want to, what, bargain with Antonio?”

Luciano smiled. He fixed one strand of hair behind Martin’s ear. “You don’t need to be shy with me, baby. You can call your daddy ‘Daddy’.”

Martin’s face burned with shame and Luciano laughed again.

It was fake, Martin decided. Fake and loud and obnoxious, and all it took was a shift of his head and Martin had his teeth on Luciano’s hand.

Luciano screamed and Martin bit harder. More people walked into the room, the boy with the glasses and the girl with the bow. Martin closed his eyes and only let go after they hit him in the stomach. He then gasped for air and they muffled him with something, some fabric, and he choked on it.

After that, he was left alone.

The next one who came to see him was the boy from Six. The psycho one, according to Alfred. The savage, according to the press.

That would be ominous enough, but even more once Martin saw the knife in his hands.

“The funny thing,” he said without any introduction, “was that I never had the chance to bite anyone.”

He didn’t say anything else. Wasn’t even looking at him while he spoke.

Martin swallowed hard. He could still feel the fabric on his tongue, and now the thirst hurt his throat. Still, he knew it was better to answer. “That’s… funny.”

“I know, right?” Now the boy turned to him. “This is not something that I do, bite people.”

“Okay…”

“I told them that. Do you know what they replied?”

Martin shook his head. The boy kept playing with the knife. Moving it through his deft fingers.

“Do you know?” He insisted.

“You know I don’t.”

“They said it didn’t matter. Apparently, I showed my teeth, and that was enough.”

He broke into a smile that completely obfuscated the threat of the knife. It didn’t reach his eyes, but that made no difference. Martin contemplated his pointy teeth, his fangs, and there was no disguising the shiver that it caused.

His discomfort made the boy’s eyes glisten. “Yes. The other funny thing is that I don’t remember showing my teeth. They could be lying.”

“They aren’t,” Martin replied, and he didn’t understand his own urgency. “You did- in the reaping, you really showed them.”

His answer surprised the boy. This time Martin saw it coming, the quick turn of wrist that had the blade pressed to his neck.

He saw it coming.

It didn’t make it any easier.

“Let’s get one thing clear,” the boy said. “I don’t trust you. I don’t believe in you. I did nothing and I got these hideous teeth, so you think carefully before you bite people. You got it?”

Martin swallowed hard. “Yes. Yes, I get it.”

“Good.” The boy stood up. “Now try not to piss off anybody else.”

He turned off the light and left the room. Martin let out a big sigh. He tried moistening his lips again, and he couldn’t avoid feeling the edge of his teeth with the tip of his tongue. That wasn’t all, and he knew it very well. If they were to get their revenge on him, he’d get the tattoos, the shaved head, the revealing clothes. So far he had only experienced the punch, the knife to the face, the cruel nickname.

Martin shut his eyes, and tried, as hard as he could, to hold back the tears.

They didn’t take long. Next time the door opened, it was Luciano and the boy with the glasses. Martin saw the scissors in his hand, and even if it hurt, he said, “It shouldn’t be you.”

“What?”

“It should be the girl,” Martin said, fighting to keep his voice devoid of emotion. “From district Four.”

The boy frowned and Luciano helped Martin to sit on the mattress. His right hand was bandaged. “You don’t really get to pick, you know,” he said. “But even if you did, you should definitely stick to Sebas instead of Maria.”

“No.” Martin shook his head. “It has to be her. She- they cut her hair. They shouldn’t have done that. You–” he faced the boy with the scissors “–Sebas, right? If you want to blindfold me, I get it. But she should be the one to shave me.”

Sebas raised his eyebrows, and he and Luciano exchanged looks.

“I won’t shave you,” he said. “Nor blindfold you, for that matter. We just need it for proof.”

“Proof?” Martin echoed, but none of the others replied. Luciano walked behind him and held his face with both hands, pressing his legs against Martin’s back.

“Try not to move,” he said. “Seriously, if you move, you’ll end up losing your eye.”

That did absolutely nothing to calm Martin down. When Sebas approached him with the scissors, he pressed his lips not to moan. But it was fast, it was painless. He took a string of hair from the back, cut it with one movement of the scissors, and then rubbed his hair before letting the proof fall into a plastic bag.

“Done.” Sebas sighed.

“Nice,” Luciano said once he left the room and closed the door behind himself. He let go of Martin’s head and raised his chin until they could face each other. “Now your daddy will know we’re not faking it.”

Such bravery, smiling like that while his bandaged hand lingered that close to Martin’s mouth. But Martin wasn’t going to bite him, not again. Even if he could feel his cheeks heating up, he kept his voice calm to reply, “It won’t work.”

“Hey, don’t underestimate your power, goldilocks.” He caressed him, appreciating the texture of the strands against his fingers. “I’d recognize this hair anywhere. Even underwater. Of course your daddy will know it’s you.”

Martin hated what that did to his face, to his stomach, to his head. “It won’t work,” he repeated, but now his voice was shaking. “You got it all wrong.”

He kept working on his hair. So soft, so gentle, that Martin had to bite his own tongue to keep from moaning.

“Got what wrong, baby?”

“Antonio doesn’t care.” Martin closed his eyes, drinking from that touch. “You could kill me and he still wouldn’t give you anything.”

  


6.

The touch ended so abruptly that Martin actually shivered. In the very next second Luciano was kneeling in front of him, holding his face and close, extremely close, painfully close to him.

“Don’t say that,” he hissed, his fingers clawing on Martin’s chin. “Nobody is going to kill you, drama queen. All we want–”

“I know,” Martin interrupted, clenching his teeth. “You’re not listening. It won’t work. What are you asking him? Freedom? Money? He won’t give you anything.”

“Of course he will! You punched me and the guy almost killed me on the spot! Why wouldn’t he pay the ransom?”

“But he didn’t.” Martin shook his head. “The peacekeepers yes, but Antonio–”

“I was there! I saw him!”

“Can you shut up and listen?” Martin snapped and Luciano’s eyebrows darted up. “I know why you’d be confused, but I know him and you don’t. Antonio doesn’t care. The only thing he cares about is looking good for Arthur. And for that he needs the Games.”

“No.” Luciano’s grip on him faltered. “Everybody knows he didn’t let you volunteer. Why–”

“He thought I’d lose,” Martin interrupted, and his face burned so much it hurt. “He had me training every day since Alfred volunteered, but he doesn’t believe I can win.”

“He doesn’t want to risk you,” Luciano muttered. “He’s trying to save you.”

“He isn’t. He doesn’t want me to embarrass him.” Martin took a deep breath while Luciano shook his head in disbelief. “I’m telling you. Antonio will kill me before he lets me ruin his agreement with Arthur.”

“No.” Luciano finally let go of him, standing up. He shook his head. “No! Fuck, this– God, what are we going to do now?”

Martin held his gaze, but it was clear that Luciano didn’t see him. His brown eyes pierced through Martin’s, but he was far away.

It was the first time that Martin saw Luciano scared of something.

He left the room and the door slammed so hard behind him that it opened again. The sound of his footsteps echoed, and Martin understood that there were stairs, and he was on the top floor, and that was the attic.

They were all talking at the same time. Angry, desperate whispers, sometimes raising the volume until all of them began shushing each other.

Martin turned his gaze back to the room. His hands were still secured, just like his feet, but he wasn’t tied to anything besides himself. With lots of effort, he crawled on the floor, sweating and panting, until he reached the top of the stairs.

With a quick movement of his head, Martin threw the hair out of his eyes. Now he could see them, the seven of them, spread out in a cramped room. Still hashing it out, arguing as quietly as they could.

Martin tried to block the sound and focus on what he could see. The curtains were drawn, but still they were way too confident being that close to the windows. There weren’t any sofas, chairs or anything that you’d expect to find in a living room. Instead he saw an assortment of boxes, huge cardboard boxes.

A warehouse, Martin thought. He tried to read the labels when he heard, “Hey! Who let him out?”

It was food, Martin thought. Groceries. They were in the warehouse of a supermarket.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Luciano said, getting his arm under Martin’s back.

“I know where we are,” Martin said. That made Luciano stop, long enough for Martin to repeat it to the others, “I know this place. It’s– frankly, it’s a miracle that nobody–”

“Shut up,” Luciano said between gritted teeth, covering Martin’s mouth with his palm. “Seriously, man, just shut up.”

“What’s a miracle?” The bald girl – Maria, that’s what they had called her – frowned. “What is he talking about?”

“Lu, let him speak,” the boy with spiky hair said.

Martin didn’t know what made him more outraged. That Luciano was muffling his mouth, or that the boy had called him “Lu”.

“He’s bluffing,” Luciano said, which just added to Martin’s outrage. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Oh, really?” Maria folded her arms. “Didn’t you just say that you trusted him?”

Martin raised his eyebrows, and, to his utter surprise, Luciano blushed. “I’ll take him back to the room,” he muttered.

He let go of Martin’s mouth, and straight up carried him to the room. Once he let him down on the mattress, Martin jerked to the side, feeling like his heart had sent all the blood to his face.

“I know what I’m talking about!” He snarled. “It took me three seconds to find out! How long do you think it’ll take before the peacekeepers break into this place?”

“Stop! Can’t you–”

“Antonio’s just letting the story build,” Martin continued. “He’s probably crying in front of the TV and the news, but when he comes, he’ll–”

“God, can you just shut up?” Luciano covered his mouth again, but now his other hand was behind Martin’s nape. “Do you have any survival instinct? Anything? Do you know what will happen if you keep talking like that?”

Martin’s eyebrows darted up. And Luciano must have seen something in his eyes, some indication of surrender, because he slowly let go.

He didn’t step back, though. His face so close that they were breathing the same air. That Martin didn’t dare open his mouth, and when Luciano’s eyes lowered to his lips, he felt his heart would stop.

“Are you thirsty?”

“What?”

“Your lips are dry,” he said. “Wait here. Don’t say a word.”

Luciano got up and this time he closed the door properly after leaving. When he came back with a glass of water, Martin hadn’t moved.

Luciano held his nape again, gentler than he should, and offered the glass so that Martin could drink.

And it would be so easy, so simple. Just spit the water on his eyes, then headbutt him on the nose. Martin knew he could untie his hands with the shattered glass. And the others wouldn’t try anything as long as he had Luciano.

But Luciano’s thumb was caressing his nape, and, against all odds, the smile had returned to his face. Delicate and small, light as a breeze, and Martin knew he couldn’t headbutt that. He would never.

After he finished drinking and Luciano put the glass down, Martin asked, “What will happen if I keep talking?”

Luciano was taken by surprise. “Huh…”

“They want to get rid of me? Is that what’s going on?”

“Well–” Luciano ran his hand through his own hair, visibly trying to buy time “–not sure if can tell you, baby.”

Martin felt the rage blinding his thoughts. It took all of him to keep it in check. “What difference does it make?”

“It’ll make a huge difference if you mention it to them.”

“I won’t. Just tell me what’s going on.”

Luciano hesitated. Martin was sure he’d give in, when Luciano stood up.

“I can’t. I’m sorry, baby.”

Martin gritted his teeth. “I told you I was related to Antonio. In the stadium, when you asked, I told you.”

Luciano frowned. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“I trusted you.”

Luciano raised his eyebrows. Martin waited for a come-back, for an excuse, for anything.

Instead, Luciano left the room and shut the door.

It felt like hours until the door opened again. Martin had been rolling on the mattress, trying to get comfortable. He was happy that, when they came, they found him sitting up.

“Open your mouth,” the boy from Six said, and Martin worried until he saw the bread in his hand.

He obeyed and the boy fed him in the most nonchalant way. Luciano waited by the door, but it didn’t take long until he said, “I can do it, Manu. You don’t need to–”

“Nonsense,” he replied. “You go too easy on him. And you like it when I feed you, don’t you?”

The question had been directed at Martin, but it clearly didn’t ask for an honest answer. Martin nodded with his head.

“Don’t you?” Manu insisted.

Martin fought to hide his annoyance. “Yes.”

“Good boy,” he said, and offered him the bread again.

Martin’s head ached with shame, so much that he couldn’t chew anymore. When Manu noticed it, he raised one eyebrow. “Oh, isn’t this good enough for you? Maybe you rather have what they offered us at the stadium?”

It was a trap, but Martin couldn’t avoid falling into it. “What did they offer you?”

“Water,” Luciano replied, walking up to Manu and taking the bread from his hands. “Rotten fruits.”

“Dog food,” Manu said between gritted teeth. “Since I got here, they gave me nothing but dog food.”

Martin exhaled hard. “I can help. I want to help.”

“I don’t believe in you.”

“You need to get out of here. That’s all I’m saying. I can help with that.”

Manu scoffed, and he didn’t bother hearing the rest. He left the room and let the door slam after himself.

Luciano sat down in front of Martin, breaking the bread in smaller pieces before offering to him. Martin accepted one piece and then tried again, “You know I’m right. What are you waiting for? Antonio will find this place.”

Luciano lowered his gaze, and this was worse than his irritating laughter. Martin tried to capture his eyes again, but the simple movement of his neck sent sparks of pain throughout his torso.

The groan escaped his lips before he could hold himself, and alarm lit up Luciano’s face.

“What was that? Are you in pain?”

“No,” Martin groaned again, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt. “I’m fine.”

Luciano smiled. “I see. Does it help if I do this?” He held Martin’s arm and started massaging his shoulder blades.

The relief was so immediate that Martin couldn’t speak. Luciano chuckled and continued.

“You should lay down,” he said. “It’ll be much easier.”

“You should untie me,” Martin replied. “It would be even easier.”

“Yeah, well, that ain’t happening. Do you want the massage or not?”

Martin grimaced but lay down. He waited to feel Luciano’s hands on his shoulders and was surprised when instead he touched his waist under his shirt.

Martin bit his lip to muffle a moan when Luciano raised his shirt. Fingertips slid over his back, tracing invisible lines as Antonio had done to the map of South Panem.

Biting his lip wasn’t enough anymore, because moaning wasn’t the only risk now. Martin had to use all his strength to keep himself from shaking.

“Why–” Luciano’s voice was hoarse, and he stopped to clear his throat “–is even your back beautiful. Fucking why?”

Martin shut his eyes. He felt like crying. And laughing. He wanted to hug Luciano, to caress his hair, to kiss the hand beneath the bandages. He wanted to say sorry, for the first time in his life he was sorry, and he couldn’t explain why the realization made him feel the worst and the best he had ever felt.

When the massage started, Martin spoke, “It’s the river.”

“What?”

“The way out of Buenos Aires. The only way out. It’s through the river.”

Luciano’s hands stopped moving. “You serious?”

Martin nodded against the mattress. “After all this time, Antonio never came close to controlling the river.”

There was no reaction, no movement, for three seconds.

After that, Luciano ran outside the room.  
  


  
7.

When Luciano came back, Martin saw from the urgency in his eyes that he had convinced the others.

“What happens if Antonio finds you?” He didn’t say ‘daddy’. Didn’t say ‘your father’.

Antonio.

Martin replied in all honesty, “I don’t know.”

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Luciano pressed on.

“He won’t kill me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

It was. Luciano’s exhale of relief left no doubts about it.

“I always wanted you,” he said, cupping Martin’s face. “Right from the start, I was the one who suggested the whole kidnapping thing.”

The air felt so heavy that Martin had difficulty breathing. 

“And then you came to us,” Luciano continued. “After the explosion, you were right there. I couldn’t believe it.”

His voice brought the memories back. The fire, the heat. Rushed whispers, a discussion on top of him. Then the touch, soft and careful.

He didn’t mean to say it, but the words formed by themselves, “You kissed me.”

Luciano’s eyes widened. “Me? Nonono. You had passed out, baby, I thought you were dead.”

“But I felt–”

“I did CPR on you,” Luciano corrected. “I may have gotten carried away, but it was all–”

Martin never let him finish. It was easy, it was simple, all he had to do was lean forward and cover Luciano’s lips with his own. It tasted better than water, better than victory.

“Promise you’ll be fine,” Luciano said once they split up. “Promise nothing will happen to you.”

“I promise.” Martin pressed his forehead against Luciano’s. “Promise you’ll be careful.”

“I promise.” He caressed his cheek. And yet another completely new expression in his face: hope mixed with apprehension. With fear – cold, raw fear of losing. “Promise you’ll find a way to join us. At some point. At any point.”

“I promise.”

They kissed again, deeply and quickly, and Luciano stood up. He closed the door after himself and Martin lay down, hearing the loudest hammering. He thought it came from footsteps, but it might as well be from the beating of his heart.

The peacekeepers found him shortly after. It was televised, as Martin knew it would be, all to fit the big story Antonio had sold to the public.

But the tributes weren’t found, and neither were their families. When Arthur asked if they had given any hint, Martin said that he had spent the whole time tied up and blindfolded. A bit far-fetched, but he had the marks on his wrists to prove it.

That year, there were no Games in South Panem.

That was the year the revolution began.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Districts & their Tributes:
> 
> 3 Sebas  
> 4 Maria  
> 6 Manu  
> 7 Catalina  
> 8 Dani  
> 10 Miguel  
> 12 Luciano


End file.
